Shiva
conducts
Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing.
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing.
Kalidasa - Shantukala, and More
The child is
named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes
infinite delight in her, as well he may; for
She brought him purity and beauty too,
As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.
She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and
little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.
As pictures waken to the painter's brush,
Or lilies open to the morning sun,
Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
Of womanhood when childish days were done.
Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:
Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
That round her red, red lips for ever played.
And when she spoke, the music of her tale
Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.
It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the
wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and
also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined
bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and
self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter
wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him
from his austerities.
_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_. --At this time, the gods
betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a
part of which is given here.
Before creation, thou art one;
Three, when creation's work is done:
All praise and honour unto thee
In this thy mystic trinity.
Three various forms and functions three
Proclaim thy living majesty;
Thou dost create, and then maintain,
And last, destroyest all again.
Thy slow recurrent day and night
Bring death to all, or living light.
We live beneath thy waking eye;
Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.
Solid and fluid, great and small,
And light and heavy--Thou art all;
Matter and form are both in thee:
Thy powers are past discovery. []
Thou art the objects that unroll
Their drama for the passive soul;
Thou art the soul that views the play
Indifferently, day by day.
Thou art the knower and the known;
Eater and food art thou alone;
The priest and his oblation fair;
The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.
Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their
coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon
named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in
opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and
found it useless.
The sun in heaven dare not glow
With undiminished heat, but so
As that the lilies may awake
Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.
The wind blows gently as it can
To serve him as a soothing fan,
And dare not manifest its power,
Lest it should steal a garden flower.
The seasons have forgotten how
To follow one another now;
They simultaneously bring
Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.
Such adoration makes him worse;
He troubles all the universe:
Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;
He should be recompensed in kind.
And all the means that we have tried
Against the rogue, are brushed aside,
As potent herbs have no avail
When bodily powers begin to fail.
We seek a leader, O our Lord,
To bring him to his just reward--
As saints seek evermore to win
Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--
That he may guide the heavenly host,
And guard us to the uttermost,
And from our foe lead captive back
The victory which still we lack.
Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not
feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut
down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted. " But he
promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead
the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,
and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his
necessary co-operation.
_Third canto. The burning of Love_. --Indra waits upon Love, who asks
for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame
Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied
by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain
where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the
trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The
only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of
season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself
is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes
heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,
and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,
and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great
god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his
eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,
and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.
_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_. --This canto is given entire.
The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
Was preparation of herself full soon
To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.
Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
On every spot where he might be, in vain,
Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
The lover she should never see again.
She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
Lord of my life? " And at the last she found
Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.
With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
She wept and to the forest world complained,
As if the forest in her grief might share.
"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
Perfect its loveliness in every part;
I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!
Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
Endured, and I for ever need its power;
Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.
Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
I never did a thing to work thee harm;
Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?
Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
Held for thy meet correction in these hands?
I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.
Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.
Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?
The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
Is now deception; for if flashing glances
Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.
And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
And even in his waxing time, will wane.
Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
Greeted by koil-birds sweet concert holding--
Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?
Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
To speed the missile when the bow is bent?
They buzz about me now with kind intention,
And mortify the grief which they lament.
Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!
Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught
Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.
Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--
And memories like these deny me rest.
Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!
Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.
Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--
Return to end the adorning of my feet.
No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
Awake in thee an answering desire.
Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
A stain that may not be obliterated,
If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.
And how can I perform the last adorning
Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?
So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
Thy body followed still the spirit's life.
I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.
But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion
The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath
Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,
Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path? "
Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief
Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,
Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief
As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.
And at the sight of him, she wept the more,
And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;
For lamentation finds an open door
In the presence of the friends we love the best.
Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!
In place of him thou seekest, what is found?
A something that the winds of heaven scatter,
A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.
Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging,
Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;
Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;
Man's love for man abides and changes not.
With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion
Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,
Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion--
The triple world has felt that arrow sting.
But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,
A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;
And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning,
Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.
In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,
For I am left. And yet the clinging vine
Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her
Round him in loving tenderness to twine.
So then, fulfil for me the final mission
Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part;
Commit me to the flames (my last petition)
And speed the widow to her husband's heart.
The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;
Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;
Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making,
Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.
My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes
Of him I loved with all a woman's powers;
Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,
As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.
Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping
On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;
Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,
Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.
And fan the flame to which I am committed
With southern winds; I would no longer stay;
Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted
For Love, my love, when I was far away.
And sprinkle some few drops of water, given
In friendship, on his ashes and on me;
That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven
As once on earth, in heavenly unity.
And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;
Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower
Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;
For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower. "
As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain
In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry,
That showed her mercy, as the early rain
Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:
"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost
For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why
He perished like the moth, when he had crossed
The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.
When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame,
To shame his daughter with impure desire,
He checked the horrid sin without a name,
And cursed the god of love to die by fire.
But Virtue interceded in behalf
Of Love, and won a softening of the doom:
'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh
In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,
He shall unite Love's body with the soul,
A marriage-present to his mountain bride. '
As clouds hold fire and water in control,
Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.
So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet
For dear reunion after present pain;
The stream that dwindles in the summer heat,
Is reunited with the autumn rain. "
Invisibly and thus mysteriously
The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death;
And Spring, believing where he might not see,
Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.
The wife of Love awaited thus the day,
Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power,
As the waning moon laments her darkened ray
And waits impatient for the twilight hour.
_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_. --Parvati reproaches her own
beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover. " She
therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping
that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother
tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit
mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all
ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress
of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited
by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid
devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the
proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered,
for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore
asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her
desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva
himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him
except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by
recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how
he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his
back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified
bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened
by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself
and the object of her love.
Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought
Of such as you: then speak no more to me.
Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought
By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.
They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears,
Or they who fain would rise a little higher;
The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears
Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.
Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source;
This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone;
Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force:
Think you his inmost nature can be known?
All forms are his; and he may take or leave
At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white;
The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave;
Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.
For poverty he rides upon a bull,
While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne,
Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful,
Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.
Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate
One thing you uttered worthy of his worth:
How could the author of the uncreate
Be born? How could we understand his birth?
Enough of this! Though every word that you
Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please
My eager heart all made of passion true
For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.
In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise,
appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her.
Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for
"successful effort regenerates. "
_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_. --While Parvati departs to
inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages,
who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's
parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them
Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing
her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that
All actions of a holy life
Are rooted in a virtuous wife.
Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the
formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the
brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain
god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven
sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of
Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage
shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by
Shiva in impatient longing.
_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_. --The three days are spent in
preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty
that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect
the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the
bride is beautiful indeed.
As when the flowers are budding on a vine,
Or white swans rest upon a river's shore,
Or when at night the stars in heaven shine,
Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.
When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same
Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies--
She waited with impatience till he came:
For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.
Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding
journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his
journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through
streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the
faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:
For his sake it was well that Parvati
Should mortify her body delicate;
Thrice happy might his serving-woman be,
And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.
Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with
bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp.
The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva
restores the body of Love.
_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_. --The first month of marital bliss is
spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a
time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at
sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few
stanzas are given here.
See, my beloved, how the sun
With beams that o'er the water shake
From western skies has now begun
A bridge of gold across the lake.
Upon the very tree-tops sway
The peacocks; even yet they hold
And drink the dying light of day,
Until their fans are molten gold.
The water-lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.
The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,
With bended neck and falling plume
And drooping mane, are seen afar
To bury day in ocean's gloom.
The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:
Thus every path of glory ends;
As high as are the scaled steeps,
The downward way as low descends.
Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his
bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to
soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few
stanzas of this description run as follows.
The twilight glow is fading far
And stains the west with blood-red light,
As when a reeking scimitar
Slants upward on a field of fight.
And vision fails above, below,
Around, before us, at our back;
The womb of night envelops slow
The world with darkness vast and black.
Mute while the world is dazed with light,
The smiling moon begins to rise
And, being teased by eager night,
Betrays the secrets of the skies.
Moon-fingers move the black, black hair
Of night into its proper place,
Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,
As he sets kisses on her face.
Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess
of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many
years.
_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_. --One day the god of fire
appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with
him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends.
Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the
burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who
journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the
god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.
_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_. --To Indra, king of the gods, Fire
betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his
burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore
travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs
much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed,
until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find
Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child,
Kumara, the future god of war.
_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_. --Ganges suckles the
beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the
child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and
Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and
at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When
Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.
Because her eyes with happy tears were dim,
'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy;
Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him,
She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.
The vision of the infant made her seem
A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss;
Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream;
Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.
Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child
spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human
infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a
good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to
count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven. " These evidences of healthy
development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.
_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_. --Indra, with the other gods,
waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them
as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are
graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers
their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the
gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his
mother Parvati, and of Indra.
_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_. --Kumara takes an
affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When
they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they
find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each
courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their
embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees
with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and
the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the
devastation wrought by Taraka.
He saw departed glory, saw the state
Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city,
As of a woman with a cowardly mate:
And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.
He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn
By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed
With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn:
And sadness overcame him as he viewed.
He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers
Defiled by elephants grown overbold,
Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers,
No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,
Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown,
Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass:
Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown,
For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.
Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara,
thus consecrating him as their general.
_Fourteenth canto. The march_. --Kumara prepares for battle, and
marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni
on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin,
and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on
its dusty march.
_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_. --The demon Taraka is informed
that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered
Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle,
marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by
dreadful omens of evil.
For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see,
Above the army of the foes of heaven,
And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously
The feast of demon corpses to be given.
And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot,
Spitting hot poison high into the air,
Brought terror to the army underfoot,
And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.
The sun a sickly halo round him had;
Coiling within it frightened eyes could see
Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad
Because the demon's death so soon should be.
And in the very circle of the sun
Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed;
And with impatient haste they seemed to run
To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.
There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash
Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high
A thunderbolt whose agonising crash
Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.
There came a pelting rain of blazing coals
With blood and bones of dead men mingled in;
Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls;
The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.
The elephants stumbled and the horses fell,
The footmen jostled, leaving each his post,
The ground beneath them trembled at the swell
Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.
And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul
To see the sun that lit that awful day,
And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl
Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.
Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he
refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances
even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven
call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of
Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his
peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.
"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven
And take my foeman's part, what would you say?
Have you forgot so soon the torture given
By shafts of mine that never miss their way?
Why should I fear before a six-days child?
Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill,
Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild,
Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?
The boy whom you have chosen as your chief
In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry;
The upright die, if taken with a thief:
First you shall perish, then he too shall die. "
And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword,
the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs
horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of
the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies
clash.
_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_. --This canto is
entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few
stanzas are given here.
As pairs of champions stood forth
To test each other's fighting worth,
The bards who knew the family fame
Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.
As ruthless weapons cut their way
Through quilted armour in the fray,
White tufts of cotton flew on high
Like hoary hairs upon the sky.
Blood-dripping swords reflected bright
The sunbeams in that awful fight;
Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,
They showed how mighty heroes clash.
The archers' arrows flew so fast,
As through a hostile breast they passed,
That they were buried in the ground,
No stain of blood upon them found.
The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,
That hands of heroes firmly grasped,
Flashed out in glory through the fight,
As if they laughed in mad delight.
And many a warrior's eager lance
Shone radiant in the eerie dance,
A curling, lapping tongue of death
To lick away the soldier's breath.
Some, panting with a bloody thirst,
Fought toward the victim chosen first,
But had a reeking path to hew
Before they had him full in view.
Great elephants, their drivers gone
And pierced with arrows, struggled on,
But sank at every step in mud
Made liquid by the streams of blood.
The warriors falling in the fray,
Whose heads the sword had lopped away,
Were able still to fetch a blow
That slew the loud-exulting foe.
The footmen thrown to Paradise
By elephants of monstrous size,
Were seized upon by nymphs above,
Exchanging battle-scenes for love.
The lancer, charging at his foe,
Would pierce him through and bring him low,
And would not heed the hostile dart
That found a lodgment in his heart.
The war-horse, though unguided, stopped
The moment that his rider dropped,
And wept above the lifeless head,
Still faithful to his master dead.
Two lancers fell with mortal wound
And still they struggled on the ground;
With bristling hair, with brandished knife,
Each strove to end the other's life.
Two slew each other in the fight;
To Paradise they took their flight;
There with a nymph they fell in love,
And still they fought in heaven above.
Two souls there were that reached the sky;
From heights of heaven they could spy
Two writhing corpses on the plain,
And knew their headless forms again.
As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief
gods, and charges upon them.
_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_. --Taraka engages the principal
gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by
Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to
retire from the battle.
Stripling, you are the only son
Of Shiva and of Parvati.
Go safe and live! Why should you run
On certain death? Why fight with me?
Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest
Clasp living son to joyful breast.
Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host
Of Indra drowning in the sea
That soon shall close upon his boast
In choking waves of misery.
For Indra is a ship of stone;
Withdraw, and let him sink alone.
Kumara answers with modest firmness.
The words you utter in your pride,
O demon-prince, are only fit;
Yet I am minded to abide
The fight, and see the end of it.
The tight-strung bow and brandished sword
Decide, and not the spoken word.
And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by
Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too
is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara
neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,
Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the
unbounded delight of the universe.
Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It
has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,
partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three
cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.
These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is
not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the
universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter
further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier
part is completed in the seventeenth canto.
It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos
are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the
first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?
Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry
than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when
writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.
Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great
vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not
be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry
of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a
very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,
its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of
the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.
There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic
substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is
lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in
this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the
matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of
the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a
little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly
into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the
adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have
adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays
for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.
It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for
deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The
introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been
written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.
As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My
own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages
in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can
never let die.
* * * * *
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit
literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it
obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though
a precisian might object to the term.
We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what
admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author
of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the
early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated
in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and
death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the
struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made
in an aerial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the
country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of
India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a
whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned
with the aerial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is
perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly
inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.
This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some
transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to
leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak
in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges
basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no
messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to
carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey
which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully
chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in
Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of
the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of
the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the
message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to
the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will
wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify
all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the
cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably
one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of
north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty
straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of
the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.
_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line
stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper. " The English
stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair
a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct
imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation
has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer
syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.
The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in
Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It
saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and
it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to
translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and
though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the
analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.
One minor point calls for notice. The word Himalaya has been accented
on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically
correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more
euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.
FORMER CLOUD
I
_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for
a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the
Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.
On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,
Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,
An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,
Doomed by his master humbly to abide,
And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.
II
_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him
of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to
pine and die_.
Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain
Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day
Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain,
A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,
As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.
III
Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears
Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed
In meditation, choking down his tears--
Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud;
To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.
IV
_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love,
he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.
Longing to save his darling's life, unblest
With joyous tidings, through the rainy days,
He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest,
Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays,
And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.
V
Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind
How all unfitly might his message mate
With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind--
Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate
'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.
VI
_He prefers his request_,
I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line,
Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief,
Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine,
I come a suppliant in my widowed grief--
Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.
VII
O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity;
My bride is far, through royal wrath and might;
Bring her my message to the Yaksha city,
Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright
From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.
VIII
_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour
rewarded by pleasures on the road_,
When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven,
Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep
And bless the sight of thee for comfort given;
Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep
Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?
IX
_and by happy omens_.
While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth,
And while upon thy left the plover sings
His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth
Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings
And for delights anticipated join their rings.
X
_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;
Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see--
Counting the days that bring the lonely smart--
The faithful wife who only lives for me:
A drooping flower is woman's loving heart,
Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.
XI
_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.
And when they hear thy welcome thunders break,
When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks,
The swans who long for the Himalayan lake
Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks,
With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.
XII
One last embrace upon this mount bestow
Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet,
Who yearly strives his love for thee to show,
Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet
With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.
XIII
_He then describes the long journey_,
Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.
XIV
_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company
of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.
Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite;
Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest;
And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight
Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest
The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.
XV
Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines
Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow;
Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines,
Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow,
Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.
XVI
_The Mala plateau_.
The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea,
Though innocent of all coquettish art,
Will give thee loving glances; for on thee
Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part;
Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.
XVII
_The Mango Peak_.
The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid
By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness;
In memory of a former service paid,
Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress
A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.
XVIII
With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem;
And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite;
When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem
Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white,
For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.
XIX
_The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming
against the mountain side_,
His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever;
Do thou upon his crest a moment bide,
Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river
Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side,
Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.
XX
_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of
elephants during the mating season_.
Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state
With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow;
Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate--
Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.
XXI
Spying the madder on the banks, half brown,
Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth,
Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down,
Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth,
The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.
XXII
Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
Yet I foresee delay on every hill
Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.
XXIII
_The Dasharna country_,
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
XXIV
_and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River_.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
XXV
A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then,
Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat
As thrilling to thy touch; where city men
O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat
In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.
XXVI
Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade
On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare
By forest rivers; and with loving shade
Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair,
Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.
XXVII
_The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly
beloved by him_;
Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise
The palace balconies thou mayst not slight
In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes
That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight
Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.
XXVIII
_and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will
meet just before he reaches the city_.
The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants
A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed,
While noisy swans accompany her dance
Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst--
A woman always tells her love in gestures first.
XXIX
Thou only, happy lover! canst repair
The desolation that thine absence made:
Her shrinking current seems the careless hair
That brides deserted wear in single braid,
And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.
XXX
_The city of Ujjain is fully described_,
Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!
XXXI
Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain
From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out
The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane,
To cure the women's languishing, and flout
With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.
XXXII
Enriched with odours through the windows drifting
From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend
By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting,
On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end,
Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.
XXXIII
_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;
Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.
XXXIV
Reaching that temple at another time,
Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
For if thou mayest play the part sublime
Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.
XXXV
The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.
XXXVI
_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.
Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.
XXXVII
_After one night of repose in the city_
Where women steal to rendezvous by night
Through darkness that a needle might divide,
Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.
XXXVIII
On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
For they that labour for a friend do not delay.
XXXIX
The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.
named Parvati, that is, daughter of the mountain. Her father takes
infinite delight in her, as well he may; for
She brought him purity and beauty too,
As white flames to the lamp that burns at night;
Or Ganges to the path whereby the true
Reach heaven; or judgment to the erudite.
She passes through a happy childhood of sand-piles, balls, dolls, and
little girl friends, when all at once young womanhood comes upon her.
As pictures waken to the painter's brush,
Or lilies open to the morning sun,
Her perfect beauty answered to the flush
Of womanhood when childish days were done.
Suppose a blossom on a leafy spray;
Suppose a pearl on spotless coral laid:
Such was the smile, pure, radiantly gay,
That round her red, red lips for ever played.
And when she spoke, the music of her tale
Was sweet, the music of her voice to suit,
Till listeners felt as if the nightingale
Had grown discordant like a jangled lute.
It is predicted by a heavenly being that she will one day become the
wife of the god Shiva. This prediction awakens her father's pride, and
also his impatience, since Shiva makes no advances. For the destined
bridegroom is at this time leading a life of stern austerity and
self-denial upon a mountain peak. Himalaya therefore bids his daughter
wait upon Shiva. She does so, but without being able to divert him
from his austerities.
_Second canto. Brahma's self-revelation_. --At this time, the gods
betake themselves to Brahma, the Creator, and sing a hymn of praise, a
part of which is given here.
Before creation, thou art one;
Three, when creation's work is done:
All praise and honour unto thee
In this thy mystic trinity.
Three various forms and functions three
Proclaim thy living majesty;
Thou dost create, and then maintain,
And last, destroyest all again.
Thy slow recurrent day and night
Bring death to all, or living light.
We live beneath thy waking eye;
Thou sleepest, and thy creatures die.
Solid and fluid, great and small,
And light and heavy--Thou art all;
Matter and form are both in thee:
Thy powers are past discovery. []
Thou art the objects that unroll
Their drama for the passive soul;
Thou art the soul that views the play
Indifferently, day by day.
Thou art the knower and the known;
Eater and food art thou alone;
The priest and his oblation fair;
The prayerful suppliant and the prayer.
Brahma receives their worship graciously, and asks the reason of their
coming. The spokesman of the gods explains to Brahma how a great demon
named Taraka is troubling the world, and how helpless they are in
opposing him. They have tried the most extravagant propitiation, and
found it useless.
The sun in heaven dare not glow
With undiminished heat, but so
As that the lilies may awake
Which blossom in his pleasure-lake.
The wind blows gently as it can
To serve him as a soothing fan,
And dare not manifest its power,
Lest it should steal a garden flower.
The seasons have forgotten how
To follow one another now;
They simultaneously bring
Him flowers of autumn, summer, spring.
Such adoration makes him worse;
He troubles all the universe:
Kindness inflames a rascal's mind;
He should be recompensed in kind.
And all the means that we have tried
Against the rogue, are brushed aside,
As potent herbs have no avail
When bodily powers begin to fail.
We seek a leader, O our Lord,
To bring him to his just reward--
As saints seek evermore to win
Virtue, to end life's woe and sin--
That he may guide the heavenly host,
And guard us to the uttermost,
And from our foe lead captive back
The victory which still we lack.
Brahma answers that the demon's power comes from him, and he does not
feel at liberty to proceed against it; "for it is not fitting to cut
down even a poison-tree that one's own hand has planted. " But he
promises that a son shall be born to Shiva and Parvati, who shall lead
the gods to victory. With this answer the gods are perforce content,
and their king, Indra, waits upon the god of love, to secure his
necessary co-operation.
_Third canto. The burning of Love_. --Indra waits upon Love, who asks
for his commands. Indra explains the matter, and asks Love to inflame
Shiva with passion for Parvati. Love thereupon sets out, accompanied
by his wife Charm and his friend Spring. When they reach the mountain
where Shiva dwells, Spring shows his power. The snow disappears; the
trees put forth blossoms; bees, deer, and birds waken to new life. The
only living being that is not influenced by the sudden change of
season is Shiva, who continues his meditation, unmoved. Love himself
is discouraged, until he sees the beauty of Parvati, when he takes
heart again. At this moment, Shiva chances to relax his meditation,
and Parvati approaches to do him homage. Love seizes the lucky moment,
and prepares to shoot his bewildering arrow at Shiva. But the great
god sees him, and before the arrow is discharged, darts fire from his
eye, whereby Love is consumed. Charm falls in a swoon, Shiva vanishes,
and the wretched Parvati is carried away by her father.
_Fourth canto. The lament of Charm_. --This canto is given entire.
The wife of Love lay helpless in a swoon,
Till wakened by a fate whose deadliest sting
Was preparation of herself full soon
To taste the youthful widow's sorrowing.
Her opening eyes were fixed with anxious thought
On every spot where he might be, in vain,
Were gladdened nowhere by the sight she sought,
The lover she should never see again.
She rose and cried aloud: "Dost thou yet live,
Lord of my life? " And at the last she found
Him whom the wrathful god could not forgive,
Her Love, a trace of ashes on the ground.
With breaking heart, with lovely bosom stained
By cold embrace of earth, with flying hair,
She wept and to the forest world complained,
As if the forest in her grief might share.
"Thy beauty slew the pride that maidens cherish;
Perfect its loveliness in every part;
I saw that beauty fade away and perish,
Yet did not die. How hard is woman's heart!
Where art thou gone? Thy love a moment only
Endured, and I for ever need its power;
Gone like the stream that leaves the lily lonely,
When the dam breaks, to mourn her dying flower.
Thou never didst a thing to cause me anguish;
I never did a thing to work thee harm;
Why should I thus in vain affliction languish?
Why not return to bless thy grieving Charm?
Of playful chastisements art thou reminded,
Thy flirtings punished by my girdle-strands,
Thine eyes by flying dust of blossoms blinded,
Held for thy meet correction in these hands?
I loved to hear the name thou gav'st me often
'Heart of my heart,' Alas! It was not true,
But lulling phrase, my coming grief to soften:
Else in thy death, my life had ended, too.
Think not that on the journey thou hast taken
So newly, I should fail to find thy track;
Ah, but the world! The world is quite forsaken,
For life is love; no life, when thee they lack.
Thou gone, my love, what power can guide the maiden
Through veils of midnight darkness in the town
To the eager heart with loving fancies laden,
And fortify against the storm-cloud's frown?
The wine that teaches eyes their gladdest dances,
That bids the love-word trippingly to glide,
Is now deception; for if flashing glances
Lead not to love, they lead to naught beside.
And when he knows thy life is a remembrance,
Thy friend the moon will feel his shining vain,
Will cease to show the world a circle's semblance,
And even in his waxing time, will wane.
Slowly the mango-blossoms are unfolding
On twigs where pink is struggling with the green,
Greeted by koil-birds sweet concert holding--
Thou dead, who makes of flowers an arrow keen?
Or weaves a string of bees with deft invention,
To speed the missile when the bow is bent?
They buzz about me now with kind intention,
And mortify the grief which they lament.
Arise! Assume again thy radiant beauty!
Rebuke the koil-bird, whom nature taught
Such sweet persuasion; she forgets her duty
As messenger to bosoms passion-fraught.
Well I remember, Love, thy suppliant motion,
Thy trembling, quick embrace, the moments blest
By fervent, self-surrendering devotion--
And memories like these deny me rest.
Well didst thou know thy wife; the springtime garland,
Wrought by thy hands, O charmer of thy Charm!
Remains to bid me grieve, while in a far land
Thy body seeks repose from earthly harm.
Thy service by the cruel gods demanded,
Meant service to thy wife left incomplete,
My bare feet with coquettish streakings banded--
Return to end the adorning of my feet.
No, straight to thee I fly, my body given,
A headlong moth, to quick-consuming fire,
Or e'er my cunning rivals, nymphs in heaven,
Awake in thee an answering desire.
Yet, dearest, even this short delay is fated
For evermore a deep reproach to prove,
A stain that may not be obliterated,
If Charm has lived one moment far from Love.
And how can I perform the last adorning
Of thy poor body, as befits a wife?
So strangely on the path that leaves me mourning
Thy body followed still the spirit's life.
I see thee straighten out thy blossom-arrow,
The bow slung careless on thy breast the while,
Thine eyes in mirthful, sidelong glance grow narrow,
Thy conference with friendly Spring, thy smile.
But where is Spring? Dear friend, whose art could fashion
The flowery arrow for thee? Has the wrath
Of dreadful Shiva, in excess of passion,
Bade him, too, follow on that fatal path? "
Heart-smitten by the accents of her grief
Like poisoned darts, soothing her fond alarm,
Incarnate Spring appeared, to bring relief
As friendship can, to sore-lamenting Charm.
And at the sight of him, she wept the more,
And often clutched her throat, and beat her breast;
For lamentation finds an open door
In the presence of the friends we love the best.
Stifling, she cried: "Behold the mournful matter!
In place of him thou seekest, what is found?
A something that the winds of heaven scatter,
A trace of dove-grey ashes on the ground.
Arise, O Love! For Spring knows no estranging,
Thy friend in lucky hap and evil lot;
Man's love for wife is ever doubtful, changing;
Man's love for man abides and changes not.
With such a friend, thy dart, on dainty pinion
Of blossoms, shot from lotus-fibre string,
Reduced men, giants, gods to thy dominion--
The triple world has felt that arrow sting.
But Love is gone, far gone beyond returning,
A candle snuffed by wandering breezes vain;
And see! I am his wick, with Love once burning,
Now blackened by the smoke of nameless pain.
In slaying Love, fate wrought but half a slaughter,
For I am left. And yet the clinging vine
Must fall, when falls the sturdy tree that taught her
Round him in loving tenderness to twine.
So then, fulfil for me the final mission
Of him who undertakes a kinsman's part;
Commit me to the flames (my last petition)
And speed the widow to her husband's heart.
The moonlight wanders not, the moon forsaking;
Where sails the cloud, the lightning is not far;
Wife follows mate, is law of nature's making,
Yes, even among such things as lifeless are.
My breast is stained; I lay among the ashes
Of him I loved with all a woman's powers;
Now let me lie where death-fire flames and flashes,
As glad as on a bed of budding flowers.
Sweet Spring, thou camest oft where we lay sleeping
On blossoms, I and he whose life is sped;
Unto the end thy friendly office keeping,
Prepare for me the last, the fiery bed.
And fan the flame to which I am committed
With southern winds; I would no longer stay;
Thou knowest well how slow the moments flitted
For Love, my love, when I was far away.
And sprinkle some few drops of water, given
In friendship, on his ashes and on me;
That Love and I may quench our thirst in heaven
As once on earth, in heavenly unity.
And sometimes seek the grave where Love is lying;
Pause there a moment, gentle Spring, and shower
Sweet mango-clusters to the winds replying;
For he thou lovedst, loved the mango-flower. "
As Charm prepared to end her mortal pain
In fire, she heard a voice from heaven cry,
That showed her mercy, as the early rain
Shows mercy to the fish, when lakes go dry:
"O wife of Love! Thy lover is not lost
For evermore. This voice shall tell thee why
He perished like the moth, when he had crossed
The dreadful god, in fire from Shiva's eye.
When darts of Love set Brahma in a flame,
To shame his daughter with impure desire,
He checked the horrid sin without a name,
And cursed the god of love to die by fire.
But Virtue interceded in behalf
Of Love, and won a softening of the doom:
'Upon the day when Shiva's heart shall laugh
In wedding joy, for mercy finding room,
He shall unite Love's body with the soul,
A marriage-present to his mountain bride. '
As clouds hold fire and water in control,
Gods are the fount of wrath, and grace beside.
So, gentle Charm, preserve thy body sweet
For dear reunion after present pain;
The stream that dwindles in the summer heat,
Is reunited with the autumn rain. "
Invisibly and thus mysteriously
The thoughts of Charm were turned away from death;
And Spring, believing where he might not see,
Comforted her with words of sweetest breath.
The wife of Love awaited thus the day,
Though racked by grief, when fate should show its power,
As the waning moon laments her darkened ray
And waits impatient for the twilight hour.
_Fifth canto. The reward of self-denial_. --Parvati reproaches her own
beauty, for "loveliness is fruitless if it does not bind a lover. " She
therefore resolves to lead a life of religious self-denial, hoping
that the merit thus acquired will procure her Shiva's love. Her mother
tries in vain to dissuade her; her father directs her to a fit
mountain peak, and she retires to her devotions. She lays aside all
ornaments, lets her hair hang unkempt, and assumes the hermit's dress
of bark. While she is spending her days in self-denial, she is visited
by a Brahman youth, who compliments her highly upon her rigid
devotion, and declares that her conduct proves the truth of the
proverb: Beauty can do no wrong. Yet he confesses himself bewildered,
for she seems to have everything that heart can desire. He therefore
asks her purpose in performing these austerities, and is told how her
desires are fixed upon the highest of all objects, upon the god Shiva
himself, and how, since Love is dead, she sees no way to win him
except by ascetic religion. The youth tries to dissuade Parvati by
recounting all the dreadful legends that are current about Shiva: how
he wears a coiling snake on his wrist, a bloody elephant-hide upon his
back, how he dwells in a graveyard, how he rides upon an undignified
bull, how poor he is and of unknown birth. Parvati's anger is awakened
by this recital. She frowns and her lip quivers as she defends herself
and the object of her love.
Shiva, she said, is far beyond the thought
Of such as you: then speak no more to me.
Dull crawlers hate the splendid wonders wrought
By lofty souls untouched by rivalry.
They search for wealth, whom dreaded evil nears,
Or they who fain would rise a little higher;
The world's sole refuge neither hopes nor fears
Nor seeks the objects of a small desire.
Yes, he is poor, yet he is riches' source;
This graveyard-haunter rules the world alone;
Dreadful is he, yet all beneficent force:
Think you his inmost nature can be known?
All forms are his; and he may take or leave
At will, the snake, or gem with lustre white;
The bloody skin, or silk of softest weave;
Dead skulls, or moonbeams radiantly bright.
For poverty he rides upon a bull,
While Indra, king of heaven, elephant-borne,
Bows low to strew his feet with beautiful,
Unfading blossoms in his chaplet worn.
Yet in the slander spoken in pure hate
One thing you uttered worthy of his worth:
How could the author of the uncreate
Be born? How could we understand his birth?
Enough of this! Though every word that you
Have said, be faithful, yet would Shiva please
My eager heart all made of passion true
For him alone. Love sees no blemishes.
In response to this eloquence, the youth throws off his disguise,
appearing as the god Shiva himself, and declares his love for her.
Parvati immediately discontinues her religious asceticism; for
"successful effort regenerates. "
_Sixth canto. Parvati is given in marriage_. --While Parvati departs to
inform her father of what has happened, Shiva summons the seven sages,
who are to make the formal proposal of marriage to the bride's
parents. The seven sages appear, flying through the air, and with them
Arundhati, the heavenly model of wifely faith and devotion. On seeing
her, Shiva feels his eagerness for marriage increase, realising that
All actions of a holy life
Are rooted in a virtuous wife.
Shiva then explains his purpose, and sends the seven sages to make the
formal request for Parvati's hand. The seven sages fly to the
brilliant city of Himalaya, where they are received by the mountain
god. After a rather portentous interchange of compliments, the seven
sages announce their errand, requesting Parvati's hand in behalf of
Shiva. The father joyfully assents, and it is agreed that the marriage
shall be celebrated after three days. These three days are spent by
Shiva in impatient longing.
_Seventh canto. Parvati's wedding_. --The three days are spent in
preparations for the wedding. So great is Parvati's unadorned beauty
that the waiting-women can hardly take their eyes from her to inspect
the wedding-dress. But the preparations are complete at last; and the
bride is beautiful indeed.
As when the flowers are budding on a vine,
Or white swans rest upon a river's shore,
Or when at night the stars in heaven shine,
Her lovely beauty grew with gems she wore.
When wide-eyed glances gave her back the same
Bright beauty--and the mirror never lies--
She waited with impatience till he came:
For women dress to please their lovers' eyes.
Meanwhile Shiva finishes his preparations, and sets out on his wedding
journey, accompanied by Brahma, Vishnu, and lesser gods. At his
journey's end, he is received by his bride's father, and led through
streets ankle-deep in flowers, where the windows are filled with the
faces of eager and excited women, who gossip together thus:
For his sake it was well that Parvati
Should mortify her body delicate;
Thrice happy might his serving-woman be,
And infinitely blest his bosom's mate.
Shiva and his retinue then enter the palace, where he is received with
bashful love by Parvati, and the wedding is celebrated with due pomp.
The nymphs of heaven entertain the company with a play, and Shiva
restores the body of Love.
_Eighth canto. The honeymoon_. --The first month of marital bliss is
spent in Himalaya's palace. After this the happy pair wander for a
time among the famous mountain-peaks. One of these they reach at
sunset, and Shiva describes the evening glow to his bride. A few
stanzas are given here.
See, my beloved, how the sun
With beams that o'er the water shake
From western skies has now begun
A bridge of gold across the lake.
Upon the very tree-tops sway
The peacocks; even yet they hold
And drink the dying light of day,
Until their fans are molten gold.
The water-lily closes, but
With wonderful reluctancy;
As if it troubled her to shut
Her door of welcome to the bee.
The steeds that draw the sun's bright car,
With bended neck and falling plume
And drooping mane, are seen afar
To bury day in ocean's gloom.
The sun is down, and heaven sleeps:
Thus every path of glory ends;
As high as are the scaled steeps,
The downward way as low descends.
Shiva then retires for meditation. On his return, he finds that his
bride is peevish at being left alone even for a little time, and to
soothe her, he describes the night which is now advancing. A few
stanzas of this description run as follows.
The twilight glow is fading far
And stains the west with blood-red light,
As when a reeking scimitar
Slants upward on a field of fight.
And vision fails above, below,
Around, before us, at our back;
The womb of night envelops slow
The world with darkness vast and black.
Mute while the world is dazed with light,
The smiling moon begins to rise
And, being teased by eager night,
Betrays the secrets of the skies.
Moon-fingers move the black, black hair
Of night into its proper place,
Who shuts her eyes, the lilies fair,
As he sets kisses on her face.
Shiva and Parvati then drink wine brought them by the guardian goddess
of the grove, and in this lovely spot they dwell happily for many
years.
_Ninth canto. The journey to Mount Kailasa_. --One day the god of fire
appears as a messenger from the gods before Shiva, to remonstrate with
him for not begetting the son upon whom heaven's welfare depends.
Shiva deposits his seed in Fire, who departs, bent low with the
burden. Shortly afterwards the gods wait upon Shiva and Parvati, who
journey with them to Mount Kailasa, the splendid dwelling-place of the
god of wealth. Here also Shiva and Parvati spend happy days.
_Tenth canto. The birth of Kumara_. --To Indra, king of the gods, Fire
betakes himself, tells his story, and begs to be relieved of his
burden. Indra advises him to deposit it in the Ganges. Fire therefore
travels to the Ganges, leaves Shiva's seed in the river, and departs
much relieved. But now it is the turn of Ganges to be distressed,
until at dawn the six Pleiades come to bathe in the river. They find
Shiva's seed and lay it in a nest of reeds, where it becomes a child,
Kumara, the future god of war.
_Eleventh canto. The birth of Kumara, continued_. --Ganges suckles the
beautiful infant. But there arises a dispute for the possession of the
child between Fire, Ganges, and the Pleiades. At this point Shiva and
Parvati arrive, and Parvati, wondering at the beauty of the infant and
at the strange quarrel, asks Shiva to whom the child belongs. When
Shiva tells her that Kumara is their own child, her joy is unbounded.
Because her eyes with happy tears were dim,
'Twas but by snatches that she saw the boy;
Yet, with her blossom-hand caressing him,
She felt a strange, an unimagined joy.
The vision of the infant made her seem
A flower unfolding in mysterious bliss;
Or, billowy with her joyful tears, a stream;
Or pure affection, perfect in a kiss.
Shiva conducts Parvati and the boy back to Mount Kailasa, where gods
and fairies welcome them with music and dancing. Here the divine child
spends the days of a happy infancy, not very different from human
infancy; for he learns to walk, gets dirty in the courtyard, laughs a
good deal, pulls the scanty hair of an old servant, and learns to
count: "One, nine, two, ten, five, seven. " These evidences of healthy
development cause Shiva and Parvati the most exquisite joy.
_Twelfth canto. Kumara is made general_. --Indra, with the other gods,
waits upon Shiva, to ask that Kumara, now a youth, may be lent to them
as their leader in the campaign against Taraka. The gods are
graciously received by Shiva, who asks their errand. Indra prefers
their request, whereupon Shiva bids his son assume command of the
gods, and slay Taraka. Great is the joy of Kumara himself, of his
mother Parvati, and of Indra.
_Thirteenth canto. Kumara is consecrated general_. --Kumara takes an
affectionate farewell of his parents, and sets out with the gods. When
they come to Indra's paradise, the gods are afraid to enter, lest they
find their enemy there. There is an amusing scene in which each
courteously invites the others to precede him, until Kumara ends their
embarrassment by leading the way. Here for the first time Kumara sees
with deep respect the heavenly Ganges, Indra's garden and palace, and
the heavenly city. But he becomes red-eyed with anger on beholding the
devastation wrought by Taraka.
He saw departed glory, saw the state
Neglected, ruined, sad, of Indra's city,
As of a woman with a cowardly mate:
And all his inmost heart dissolved in pity.
He saw how crystal floors were gashed and torn
By wanton tusks of elephants, were strewed
With skins that sloughing cobras once had worn:
And sadness overcame him as he viewed.
He saw beside the bathing-pools the bowers
Defiled by elephants grown overbold,
Strewn with uprooted golden lotus-flowers,
No longer bright with plumage of pure gold,
Rough with great, jewelled columns overthrown,
Rank with invasion of the untrimmed grass:
Shame strove with sorrow at the ruin shown,
For heaven's foe had brought these things to pass.
Amid these sorrowful surroundings the gods gather and anoint Kumara,
thus consecrating him as their general.
_Fourteenth canto. The march_. --Kumara prepares for battle, and
marshals his army. He is followed by Indra riding on an elephant, Agni
on a ram, Yama on a buffalo, a giant on a ghost, Varuna on a dolphin,
and many other lesser gods. When all is ready, the army sets out on
its dusty march.
_Fifteenth canto. The two armies clash_. --The demon Taraka is informed
that the hostile army is approaching, but scorns the often-conquered
Indra and the boy Kumara. Nevertheless, he prepares for battle,
marshals his army, and sets forth to meet the gods. But he is beset by
dreadful omens of evil.
For foul birds came, a horrid flock to see,
Above the army of the foes of heaven,
And dimmed the sun, awaiting ravenously
The feast of demon corpses to be given.
And monstrous snakes, as black as powdered soot,
Spitting hot poison high into the air,
Brought terror to the army underfoot,
And crept and coiled and crawled before them there.
The sun a sickly halo round him had;
Coiling within it frightened eyes could see
Great, writhing serpents, enviously glad
Because the demon's death so soon should be.
And in the very circle of the sun
Were phantom jackals, snarling to be fed;
And with impatient haste they seemed to run
To drink the demon's blood in battle shed.
There fell, with darting flame and blinding flash
Lighting the farthest heavens, from on high
A thunderbolt whose agonising crash
Brought fear and shuddering from a cloudless sky.
There came a pelting rain of blazing coals
With blood and bones of dead men mingled in;
Smoke and weird flashes horrified their souls;
The sky was dusty grey like asses' skin.
The elephants stumbled and the horses fell,
The footmen jostled, leaving each his post,
The ground beneath them trembled at the swell
Of ocean, when an earthquake shook the host.
And dogs before them lifted muzzles foul
To see the sun that lit that awful day,
And pierced the ears of listeners with a howl
Dreadful yet pitiful, then slunk away.
Taraka's counsellors endeavour to persuade him to turn back, but he
refuses; for timidity is not numbered among his faults. As he advances
even worse portents appear, and finally warning voices from heaven
call upon him to desist from his undertaking. The voices assure him of
Kumara's prowess and inevitable victory; they advise him to make his
peace while there is yet time. But Taraka's only answer is a defiance.
"You mighty gods that flit about in heaven
And take my foeman's part, what would you say?
Have you forgot so soon the torture given
By shafts of mine that never miss their way?
Why should I fear before a six-days child?
Why should you prowl in heaven and gibber shrill,
Like dogs that in an autumn night run wild,
Like deer that sneak through forests, trembling still?
The boy whom you have chosen as your chief
In vain upon his hermit-sire shall cry;
The upright die, if taken with a thief:
First you shall perish, then he too shall die. "
And as Taraka emphasises his meaning by brandishing his great sword,
the warning spirits flee, their knees knocking together. Taraka laughs
horribly, then mounts his chariot, and advances against the army of
the gods. On the other side the gods advance, and the two armies
clash.
_Sixteenth canto. The battle between gods and demons_. --This canto is
entirely taken up with the struggle between the two armies. A few
stanzas are given here.
As pairs of champions stood forth
To test each other's fighting worth,
The bards who knew the family fame
Proclaimed aloud each mighty name.
As ruthless weapons cut their way
Through quilted armour in the fray,
White tufts of cotton flew on high
Like hoary hairs upon the sky.
Blood-dripping swords reflected bright
The sunbeams in that awful fight;
Fire-darting like the lightning-flash,
They showed how mighty heroes clash.
The archers' arrows flew so fast,
As through a hostile breast they passed,
That they were buried in the ground,
No stain of blood upon them found.
The swords that sheaths no longer clasped,
That hands of heroes firmly grasped,
Flashed out in glory through the fight,
As if they laughed in mad delight.
And many a warrior's eager lance
Shone radiant in the eerie dance,
A curling, lapping tongue of death
To lick away the soldier's breath.
Some, panting with a bloody thirst,
Fought toward the victim chosen first,
But had a reeking path to hew
Before they had him full in view.
Great elephants, their drivers gone
And pierced with arrows, struggled on,
But sank at every step in mud
Made liquid by the streams of blood.
The warriors falling in the fray,
Whose heads the sword had lopped away,
Were able still to fetch a blow
That slew the loud-exulting foe.
The footmen thrown to Paradise
By elephants of monstrous size,
Were seized upon by nymphs above,
Exchanging battle-scenes for love.
The lancer, charging at his foe,
Would pierce him through and bring him low,
And would not heed the hostile dart
That found a lodgment in his heart.
The war-horse, though unguided, stopped
The moment that his rider dropped,
And wept above the lifeless head,
Still faithful to his master dead.
Two lancers fell with mortal wound
And still they struggled on the ground;
With bristling hair, with brandished knife,
Each strove to end the other's life.
Two slew each other in the fight;
To Paradise they took their flight;
There with a nymph they fell in love,
And still they fought in heaven above.
Two souls there were that reached the sky;
From heights of heaven they could spy
Two writhing corpses on the plain,
And knew their headless forms again.
As the struggle comes to no decisive issue, Taraka seeks out the chief
gods, and charges upon them.
_Seventeenth canto. Taraka is slain_. --Taraka engages the principal
gods and defeats them with magic weapons. When they are relieved by
Kumara, the demon turns to the youthful god of war, and advises him to
retire from the battle.
Stripling, you are the only son
Of Shiva and of Parvati.
Go safe and live! Why should you run
On certain death? Why fight with me?
Withdraw! Let sire and mother blest
Clasp living son to joyful breast.
Flee, son of Shiva, flee the host
Of Indra drowning in the sea
That soon shall close upon his boast
In choking waves of misery.
For Indra is a ship of stone;
Withdraw, and let him sink alone.
Kumara answers with modest firmness.
The words you utter in your pride,
O demon-prince, are only fit;
Yet I am minded to abide
The fight, and see the end of it.
The tight-strung bow and brandished sword
Decide, and not the spoken word.
And with this the duel begins. When Taraka finds his arrows parried by
Kumara, he employs the magic weapon of the god of wind. When this too
is parried, he uses the magic weapon of the god of fire, which Kumara
neutralises with the weapon of the god of water. As they fight on,
Kumara finds an opening, and slays Taraka with his lance, to the
unbounded delight of the universe.
Here the poem ends, in the form in which it has come down to us. It
has been sometimes thought that we have less than Kalidasa wrote,
partly because of a vague tradition that there were once twenty-three
cantos, partly because the customary prayer is lacking at the end.
These arguments are not very cogent. Though the concluding prayer is
not given in form, yet the stanzas which describe the joy of the
universe fairly fill its place. And one does not see with what matter
further cantos would be concerned. The action promised in the earlier
part is completed in the seventeenth canto.
It has been somewhat more formidably argued that the concluding cantos
are spurious, that Kalidasa wrote only the first seven or perhaps the
first eight cantos. Yet, after all, what do these arguments amount to?
Hardly more than this, that the first eight cantos are better poetry
than the last nine. As if a poet were always at his best, even when
writing on a kind of subject not calculated to call out his best.
Fighting is not Kalidasa's _forte_; love is. Even so, there is great
vigour in the journey of Taraka, the battle, and the duel. It may not
be the highest kind of poetry, but it is wonderfully vigorous poetry
of its kind. And if we reject the last nine cantos, we fall into a
very much greater difficulty. The poem would be glaringly incomplete,
its early promise obviously disregarded. We should have a _Birth of
the War-god_ in which the poet stopped before the war-god was born.
There seems then no good reason to doubt that we have the epic
substantially as Kalidasa wrote it. Plainly, it has a unity which is
lacking in Kalidasa's other epic, _The Dynasty_ _of Raghu_, though in
this epic, too, the interest shifts. Parvati's love-affair is the
matter of the first half, Kumara's fight with the demon the matter of
the second half. Further, it must be admitted that the interest runs a
little thin. Even in India, where the world of gods runs insensibly
into the world of men, human beings take more interest in the
adventures of men than of gods. The gods, indeed, can hardly have
adventures; they must be victorious. _The Birth of the War-god_ pays
for its greater unity by a poverty of adventure.
It would be interesting if we could know whether this epic was written
before or after _The Dynasty of Raghu_. But we have no data for
deciding the question, hardly any for even arguing it. The
introduction to _The Dynasty of Raghu_ seems, indeed, to have been
written by a poet who yet had his spurs to win. But this is all.
As to the comparative excellence of the two epics, opinions differ. My
own preference is for _The Dynasty of Raghu_, yet there are passages
in _The Birth of the War-god_ of a piercing beauty which the world can
never let die.
* * * * *
THE CLOUD-MESSENGER
In _The Cloud-Messenger_ Kalidasa created a new _genre_ in Sanskrit
literature. Hindu critics class the poem with _The Dynasty of Raghu_
and _The Birth of the War-god_ as a _kavya_, or learned epic. This it
obviously is not. It is fair enough to call it an elegiac poem, though
a precisian might object to the term.
We have already seen, in speaking of _The Dynasty of Raghu_, what
admiration Kalidasa felt for his great predecessor Valmiki, the author
of the _Ramayana_; and it is quite possible that an episode of the
early epic suggested to him the idea which he has exquisitely treated
in _The Cloud-Messenger_. In the _Ramayana_, after the defeat and
death of Ravana, Rama returns with his wife and certain heroes of the
struggle from Ceylon to his home in Northern India. The journey, made
in an aerial car, gives the author an opportunity to describe the
country over which the car must pass in travelling from one end of
India to the other. The hint thus given him was taken by Kalidasa; a
whole canto of _The Dynasty of Raghu_ (the thirteenth) is concerned
with the aerial journey. Now if, as seems not improbable, _The Dynasty
of Raghu_ was the earliest of Kalidasa's more ambitious works, it is
perhaps legitimate to imagine him, as he wrote this canto, suddenly
inspired with the plan of _The Cloud-Messenger_.
This plan is slight and fanciful. A demigod, in consequence of some
transgression against his master, the god of wealth, is condemned to
leave his home in the Himalayas, and spend a year of exile on a peak
in the Vindhya Mountains, which divide the Deccan from the Ganges
basin. He wishes to comfort and encourage his wife, but has no
messenger to send her. In his despair, he begs a passing cloud to
carry his words. He finds it necessary to describe the long journey
which the cloud must take, and, as the two termini are skilfully
chosen, the journey involves a visit to many of the spots famous in
Indian story. The description of these spots fills the first half of
the poem. The second half is filled with a more minute description of
the heavenly city, of the home and bride of the demigod, and with the
message proper. The proportions of the poem may appear unfortunate to
the Western reader, in whom the proper names of the first half will
wake scanty associations. Indeed, it is no longer possible to identify
all the places mentioned, though the general route followed by the
cloud can be easily traced. The peak from which he starts is probably
one near the modern Nagpore. From this peak he flies a little west of
north to the Nerbudda River, and the city of Ujjain; thence pretty
straight north to the upper Ganges and the Himalaya. The geography of
the magic city of Alaka is quite mythical.
_The Cloud-Messenger_ contains one hundred and fifteen four-line
stanzas, in a majestic metre called the "slow-stepper. " The English
stanza which has been chosen for the translation gives perhaps as fair
a representation of the original movement as may be, where direct
imitation is out of the question. Though the stanza of the translation
has five lines to four for the slow-stepper, it contains fewer
syllables; a constant check on the temptation to padding.
The analysis which accompanies the poem, and which is inserted in
Italics at the beginning of each stanza, has more than one object. It
saves footnotes; it is intended as a real help to comprehension; and
it is an eminently Hindu device. Indeed, it was my first intention to
translate literally portions of Mallinatha's famous commentary; and
though this did not prove everywhere feasible, there is nothing in the
analysis except matter suggested by the commentary.
One minor point calls for notice. The word Himalaya has been accented
on the second syllable wherever it occurs. This accent is historically
correct, and has some foothold in English usage; besides, it is more
euphonious and better adapted to the needs of the metre.
FORMER CLOUD
I
_A Yaksha, or divine attendant on Kubera, god of wealth, is exiled for
a year from his home in the Himalayas. As he dwells on a peak in the
Vindhya range, half India separates him from his young bride_.
On Rama's shady peak where hermits roam,
Mid streams by Sita's bathing sanctified,
An erring Yaksha made his hapless home,
Doomed by his master humbly to abide,
And spend a long, long year of absence from his bride.
II
_After eight months of growing emaciation, the first cloud warns him
of the approach of the rainy season, when neglected brides are wont to
pine and die_.
Some months were gone; the lonely lover's pain
Had loosed his golden bracelet day by day
Ere he beheld the harbinger of rain,
A cloud that charged the peak in mimic fray,
As an elephant attacks a bank of earth in play.
III
Before this cause of lovers' hopes and fears
Long time Kubera's bondman sadly bowed
In meditation, choking down his tears--
Even happy hearts thrill strangely to the cloud;
To him, poor wretch, the loved embrace was disallowed.
IV
_Unable to send tidings otherwise of his health and unchanging love,
he resolves to make the cloud his messenger_.
Longing to save his darling's life, unblest
With joyous tidings, through the rainy days,
He plucked fresh blossoms for his cloudy guest,
Such homage as a welcoming comrade pays,
And bravely spoke brave words of greeting and of praise.
V
Nor did it pass the lovelorn Yaksha's mind
How all unfitly might his message mate
With a cloud, mere fire and water, smoke and wind--
Ne'er yet was lover could discriminate
'Twixt life and lifeless things, in his love-blinded state.
VI
_He prefers his request_,
I know, he said, thy far-famed princely line,
Thy state, in heaven's imperial council chief,
Thy changing forms; to thee, such fate is mine,
I come a suppliant in my widowed grief--
Better thy lordly "no" than meaner souls' relief.
VII
O cloud, the parching spirit stirs thy pity;
My bride is far, through royal wrath and might;
Bring her my message to the Yaksha city,
Rich-gardened Alaka, where radiance bright
From Shiva's crescent bathes the palaces in light.
VIII
_hinting at the same time that the' cloud will find his kindly labour
rewarded by pleasures on the road_,
When thou art risen to airy paths of heaven,
Through lifted curls the wanderer's love shall peep
And bless the sight of thee for comfort given;
Who leaves his bride through cloudy days to weep
Except he be like me, whom chains of bondage keep?
IX
_and by happy omens_.
While favouring breezes waft thee gently forth,
And while upon thy left the plover sings
His proud, sweet song, the cranes who know thy worth
Will meet thee in the sky on joyful wings
And for delights anticipated join their rings.
X
_He assures the cloud that his bride is neither dead nor faithless_;
Yet hasten, O my brother, till thou see--
Counting the days that bring the lonely smart--
The faithful wife who only lives for me:
A drooping flower is woman's loving heart,
Upheld by the stem of hope when two true lovers part.
XI
_further, that there will be no lack of travelling companions_.
And when they hear thy welcome thunders break,
When mushrooms sprout to greet thy fertile weeks,
The swans who long for the Himalayan lake
Will be thy comrades to Kailasa's peaks,
With juicy bits of lotus-fibre in their beaks.
XII
One last embrace upon this mount bestow
Whose flanks were pressed by Rama's holy feet,
Who yearly strives his love for thee to show,
Warmly his well-beloved friend to greet
With the tear of welcome shed when two long-parted meet.
XIII
_He then describes the long journey_,
Learn first, O cloud, the road that thou must go,
Then hear my message ere thou speed away;
Before thee mountains rise and rivers flow:
When thou art weary, on the mountains stay,
And when exhausted, drink the rivers' driven spray.
XIV
_beginning with the departure from Rama's peak, where dwells a company
of Siddhas, divine beings of extraordinary sanctity_.
Elude the heavenly elephants' clumsy spite;
Fly from this peak in richest jungle drest;
And Siddha maids who view thy northward flight
Will upward gaze in simple terror, lest
The wind be carrying quite away the mountain crest.
XV
Bright as a heap of flashing gems, there shines
Before thee on the ant-hill, Indra's bow;
Matched with that dazzling rainbow's glittering lines,
Thy sombre form shall find its beauties grow,
Like the dark herdsman Vishnu, with peacock-plumes aglow.
XVI
_The Mala plateau_.
The farmers' wives on Mala's lofty lea,
Though innocent of all coquettish art,
Will give thee loving glances; for on thee
Depends the fragrant furrow's fruitful part;
Thence, barely westering, with lightened burden start.
XVII
_The Mango Peak_.
The Mango Peak whose forest fires were laid
By streams of thine, will soothe thy weariness;
In memory of a former service paid,
Even meaner souls spurn not in time of stress
A suppliant friend; a soul so lofty, much the less.
XVIII
With ripened mango-fruits his margins teem;
And thou, like wetted braids, art blackness quite;
When resting on the mountain, thou wilt seem
Like the dark nipple on Earth's bosom white,
For mating gods and goddesses a thrilling sight.
XIX
_The Reva, or Nerbudda River, foaming
against the mountain side_,
His bowers are sweet to forest maidens ever;
Do thou upon his crest a moment bide,
Then fly, rain-quickened, to the Reva river
Which gaily breaks on Vindhya's rocky side,
Like painted streaks upon an elephant's dingy hide.
XX
_and flavoured with the ichor which exudes from the temples of
elephants during the mating season_.
Refresh thyself from thine exhausted state
With ichor-pungent drops that fragrant flow;
Thou shalt not then to every wind vibrate--
Empty means ever light, and full means added weight.
XXI
Spying the madder on the banks, half brown,
Half green with shoots that struggle to the birth,
Nibbling where early plantain-buds hang down,
Scenting the sweet, sweet smell of forest earth,
The deer will trace thy misty track that ends the dearth.
XXII
Though thou be pledged to ease my darling's pain,
Yet I foresee delay on every hill
Where jasmines blow, and where the peacock-train
Cries forth with joyful tears a welcome shrill;
Thy sacrifice is great, but haste thy journey still.
XXIII
_The Dasharna country_,
At thine approach, Dasharna land is blest
With hedgerows where gay buds are all aglow,
With village trees alive with many a nest
Abuilding by the old familiar crow,
With lingering swans, with ripe rose-apples' darker show.
XXIV
_and its capital Vidisha, on the banks of Reed River_.
There shalt thou see the royal city, known
Afar, and win the lover's fee complete,
If thou subdue thy thunders to a tone
Of murmurous gentleness, and taste the sweet,
Love-rippling features of the river at thy feet.
XXV
A moment rest on Nichais' mountain then,
Where madder-bushes don their blossom coat
As thrilling to thy touch; where city men
O'er youth's unbridled pleasures fondly gloat
In caverns whence the perfumes of gay women float.
XXVI
Fly on refreshed; and sprinkle buds that fade
On jasmine-vines in gardens wild and rare
By forest rivers; and with loving shade
Caress the flower-girls' heated faces fair,
Whereon the lotuses droop withering from their hair.
XXVII
_The famous old city of Ujjain, the home of the poet, and dearly
beloved by him_;
Swerve from thy northern path; for westward rise
The palace balconies thou mayst not slight
In fair Ujjain; and if bewitching eyes
That flutter at thy gleams, should not delight
Thine amorous bosom, useless were thy gift of sight.
XXVIII
_and the river, personified as a loving woman, whom the cloud will
meet just before he reaches the city_.
The neighbouring mountain stream that gliding grants
A glimpse of charms in whirling eddies pursed,
While noisy swans accompany her dance
Like a tinkling zone, will slake thy loving thirst--
A woman always tells her love in gestures first.
XXIX
Thou only, happy lover! canst repair
The desolation that thine absence made:
Her shrinking current seems the careless hair
That brides deserted wear in single braid,
And dead leaves falling give her face a paler shade.
XXX
_The city of Ujjain is fully described_,
Sufficed, though fallen from heaven, to bring down heaven on earth!
XXXI
Where the river-breeze at dawn, with fragrant gain
From friendly lotus-blossoms, lengthens out
The clear, sweet passion-warbling of the crane,
To cure the women's languishing, and flout
With a lover's coaxing all their hesitating doubt.
XXXII
Enriched with odours through the windows drifting
From perfumed hair, and greeted as a friend
By peacock pets their wings in dances lifting,
On flower-sweet balconies thy labour end,
Where prints of dear pink feet an added glory lend.
XXXIII
_especially its famous shrine to Shiva, called Mahakala_;
Black as the neck of Shiva, very God,
Dear therefore to his hosts, thou mayest go
To his dread shrine, round which the gardens nod
When breezes rich with lotus-pollen blow
And ointments that the gaily bathing maidens know.
XXXIV
Reaching that temple at another time,
Wait till the sun is lost to human eyes;
For if thou mayest play the part sublime
Of Shiva's drum at evening sacrifice,
Then hast thou in thy thunders grave a priceless prize.
XXXV
The women there, whose girdles long have tinkled
In answer to the dance, whose hands yet seize
And wave their fans with lustrous gems besprinkled,
Will feel thine early drops that soothe and please,
And recompense thee from black eyes like clustering bees.
XXXVI
_and the black cloud, painted with twilight red, is bidden to serve as
a robe for the god, instead of the bloody elephant hide which he
commonly wears in his wild dance_.
Clothing thyself in twilight's rose-red glory,
Embrace the dancing Shiva's tree-like arm;
He will prefer thee to his mantle gory
And spare his grateful goddess-bride's alarm,
Whose eager gaze will manifest no fear of harm.
XXXVII
_After one night of repose in the city_
Where women steal to rendezvous by night
Through darkness that a needle might divide,
Show them the road with lightning-flashes bright
As golden streaks upon the touchstone's side--
But rain and thunder not, lest they be terrified.
XXXVIII
On some rich balcony where sleep the doves,
Through the dark night with thy beloved stay,
The lightning weary with the sport she loves;
But with the sunrise journey on thy way--
For they that labour for a friend do not delay.
XXXIX
The gallant dries his mistress' tears that stream
When he returns at dawn to her embrace--
Prevent thou not the sun's bright-fingered beam
That wipes the tear-dew from the lotus' face;
His anger else were great, and great were thy disgrace.
